


Waltz of the Marionettes

by Turquoster (Azurspur)



Category: X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Charles Xavier has a Ph.D in Adorable, Creepy, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Puppets, Romance, Smitten Erik, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-06
Packaged: 2019-10-23 05:19:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17677151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Azurspur/pseuds/Turquoster
Summary: One fateful night in the streets of New York, Erik stumbles upon the unexpected. Enchanting blue eyes draw him in, but something sinister lurks in the darkness...Or, the sorta-au where Charles is charming, Erik is smitten, and Shaw is just everything wrong with the world; with a dash of creepy waltzes.





	Waltz of the Marionettes

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this gorgeously eerie piece of music: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=tt6wviU9Rc4
> 
> Feel free to have a listen as you read! And do leave your thoughts in the comments below, I would love to know if I'm doing this ship justice.
> 
> *The characters don't belong to me, and parts of the dialogue are borrowed from XMFC.
> 
> Sincerely,  
> Turq

 

□■▪¤▪■□

 

Erik hasn’t the faintest idea where he is. 

 

He only has a slightly clearer inkling of  _how_  he came to be here. 

 

Last he checked, he was dashing through the alleyways of New York City, dodging dumpsters and streetlamps as he chased after a shadow. The thrill of the pursuit rushing through his veins, boots pounding against the pavement, as he gained on his target. And he’d nearly caught him, too—could’ve  _sworn_  that his fingers had brushed against leathery skin—before the world had abruptly disintegrated around him. 

 

By the time he’d come back to his senses, fighting waves of nausea and a dizzying lack of spatial sense, a puff of red smoke was all that had remained of his shadow.  

 

Now, Erik takes refuge in the darkened corner by the buffet table, in an attempt to camouflage his black turtleneck and slacks amidst the flurry of rich velvets and sparkling jewels. He tries to take stock of the situation.  

 

The room is big, enough to house the fifty or so patrons milling about the floor. A crystal chandelier dangles delicately from the high vaulted ceiling, illuminating the space to give it a candlelit appearance. Platters of food line the table to one side, quite forgotten, as the guests prefer to prance about holding wine glasses, chattering amongst one another. Others twirl around the floor in a waltz. 

 

Erik notes all this with a growing sense of unease. 

 

He’s landed himself smack in the middle of a ball, evidently, and while that is distressing in itself, he can’t help but feel that something is amiss. Casting a wary glance around, he tries to reason his way out of this. 

 

The most pressing concern is: Erik can no longer feel the pull of magnetic north. In all his prior escapades of Nazi hunting, he’s never once lost contact with the earth’s magnetic field. It was the one thing that kept him on track, his own internal compass to lead the way out of the most unsavoury of skirmishes.  

 

Here, he is well and truly lost. 

 

Then comes the matter of the shadow he’d been chasing, clearly the party responsible for his relocation, though he can’t imagine how. Could it be... that the man was like him? With  _powers_  of what—enhanced speed? Teleportation? It is a novel Idea, one that threatens to shake Erik’s very core the longer he dwells upon it. 

 

For so very long, he’d thought himself alone. Now, there might be someone out there like him, and he had let him get away. Not to mention, the man was his only lead on finding Schmidt, after years of searching and devoting himself to his revenge. And it had slipped through his fingers like so much smoke. 

 

Erik’s eye snags on the bottle of scotch resting at one end of the table, and he has to resist the urge to drink away his crushing sense of failure. 

 

_One thing at a time,_ he tells himself.  _You still don’t know where you are, or how to get out of here._ He needs to figure that out, fast, before the ominous feeling in the pit of his stomach takes physical form. His instincts haven’t failed him yet, and he is not keen on discovering what hides behind the guise of this extravagant gathering. 

 

Erik scans the room for signs of an exit, coming up empty for the nth time. He doesn’t notice the presence creeping up behind him until a voice breaks through his thoughts. 

 

“Haven’t seen you around here before. New to the city?”  

 

Erik just about startles, spinning around to face the speaker, a young woman with dark red hair and a deep blue gown that nearly blends in with her skin. 

 

Her skin, which is  _blue_ and  _covered in scales.  
_

 

Erik is sure that his jaw is hanging open, but the woman hardly seems to notice, her sharp golden eyes conducting a once over of their own. He is pinned by her gaze, thoughts tumbling about incoherently. If his disappearing shadow wasn’t proof enough, here is a woman with ink blue flesh standing right before him. 

 

After a short eternity, she hums, considering. “The quiet, brooding type, then.” Erik belatedly remembers that she’d asked him a question. She tilts her head, pearly whites a stark contrast against the dark hue of her skin. “Easy on the eyes, though. I can work with that.” 

 

Erik gives himself a mental shake, scrambling for his bearings. Schmidt. The chase. Smoke. A way out. Right. He takes a breath, and his voice comes out steady. “Do you know where we are?” 

 

The woman blinks. “New York City, of course.” 

 

Good. That’s a relief. But he needs details. “Where in the city, exactly?” 

 

Her eyes seem to go unfocused for a moment, brows furrowing in confusion. “The...upper east side, I think?” The fog persists for only a moment, and then she’s staring at him quizzically. “Why does that matter? You’re here now.” 

 

“I don’t want to be,” Erik mutters, raking a worried hand through his hair. Something is very, very wrong with this place. “Look, can you just tell me where the nearest exit is? I wound up here by accident.” 

 

The woman eyes his clothes again, nose scrunching in distaste. “Clearly. That’s hardly a party appropriate outfit.” 

 

“An astute observation. The exit, miss.” 

 

To Erik’s dismay, his stern tone only seems to embolden her. “That’s Raven to you, unfortunately dressed stranger.” She steps right into his space, eyes determined. “I’m your host for the night, and, in all good conscience, I can’t allow you to leave until you’ve danced. Got a reputation to uphold, you know.” 

 

And then she’s got an iron grip around his forearm, and is steadily dragging Erik towards the dancing crowd. His muscles tense, feet sliding uselessly against the marble floor as he tries to extricate himself, to no avail. “I don’t dance,” he tries to protest, but Raven silences him with a look. 

 

“Nonsense.” She comes to a stop right in the midst of the temporarily stationary throng and flashes him a reassuring smile, before shoving him into the fray. “Just keep an open mind, and let the music guide you!” 

 

“Wait,” he scrambles for her, but it’s too late. The harpsichord comes alive with a jolt, and the dancers jerk into motion, engulfing him in the swarm. 

 

A few eons pass as Erik is swept away in a whirlwind of colours and lights, feeling completely wrong footed as he’s passed down a line of partners. He stumbles his way through the dance, eyes flitting about for an opening to escape, every gleeful smile thrown his way contributing to his building panic. His inhibitions towards parties aside, there’s something wrong about the atmosphere of this place, something unnatural and downright  _sinister,_ and it grates against his instincts, screaming at him to get out, get out  _right now—  
_

 

And then the whirlwind settles.  

 

The suffocating sense of impending doom still hangs over him like a dark cloud. But the music has slowed to a crawl, the dissonant chords stringing together in some imitation of a melody.

 

His movements have slowed with the music, and Erik slowly becomes aware of a soft hand in his, a gentle weight on his shoulder. 

 

He opens his eyes, unaware of ever having closed them, and finds himself adrift at sea. 

 

The waves shimmer in the dim lighting. He holds his breath as blue eyes peer at him in concerned amusement. “Are you alright?” A voice inquires, accent curving over polished syllables like water across a sandy shore. “You look quite pale. Not a fan of the waltz?” 

 

It takes Erik a moment to remember how to breathe.

 

“Not a fan of dancing,” he corrects, proud that his words only come out a little hoarse. 

 

Blue eyes dance with amusement. “Well, my friend, I’m afraid you’ve found yourself at an entirely inappropriate gathering altogether.” 

_Tell me about it,_ Erik grouses, and red lips twitch up at the corners. 

 

They make a slow circuit around the room, in time to the discordant tune, but Erik hardly notices. The beginnings of the headache blooming at his temples seem to evaporate the longer he stares into the blue depths of his partner’s eyes, and he is perfectly content to ground his concentration in them. 

 

“Forgive my curiosity,” the man speaks up after a while. “But your ardent dislike for dancing only begs the question of how you ended up at a ball. If you don’t mind me asking?” 

 

The illusion of permission is appreciated, but Erik doesn’t think there’s anything he wouldn’t tell the man, caught in his gaze as he is. Still, he considers his circumstances, and wonders how much to reveal. 

 

“An accident,” he says, finally. Erik darts another glance at the disturbingly jovial guests, suppressing a shudder of unease. “I’m not supposed to be here.” 

 

Curiously, the man’s expression shutters off, brows furrowing minutely. “I see.”  

 

Erik can’t help but feel as though he’s said something wrong. He scrambles to wipe that look off his face, gathering the remnants of his social graces. “How about you,” he ventures. “You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself all that much.” 

 

The man blinks, and Erik thinks that that might’ve been a little presumptuous. “Is it so obvious?” Then blue eyes flick to the side, and his lips curve in a sheepish smile, setting Erik’s heart at ease. “You’re not wrong; though, my sister would have my head if she found me anything less than absolutely thrilled. She’s the hostess of this lovely event, you see.” 

 

The hostess? Erik thinks of blue scales and golden eyes, and tries to remember her name. “Raven is your sister?” 

 

He’s got it right, judging by the way the man’s eyes light up. “You’ve met her, then.” 

 

“Yes. She’s very...”  _Demanding. Pushy. The sister of the man he doesn’t want to upset._ “...assertive.” 

 

Red lips part in a warm chuckle. “That she certainly is.” He looks up at Erik, eyes crinkling with his smile. “It got the two of us into a world of trouble when we were younger. But she really does mean well.” 

 

“Right,” Erik says uselessly, in the face of such radiance. 

 

Luckily, his partner seems better versed in social interactions, and continues the conversation effortlessly. “Do you have any siblings?” 

 

“No. I’m an only child.” 

 

Blue eyes dim a little, in kind compassion. “I do hope you weren’t terribly lonely, then.” 

 

Erik thinks about his parents; about his mother, who’d spend Saturday afternoons attempting to teach him how to cook, only for it to end in a gruelling food fight; about his father’s quiet pride every time he tamed a malfunctioning appliance with natural ease. Remembers the look in their eyes, so full of love, before they were torn away from him. “No,” he says, softly. “Not one bit.” 

 

Perhaps sensing a fragile moment, his partner only offers him a soft smile. They continue to glide across the marble floor in companionable silence. Distantly, Erik realizes that the music has changed, and his one obligatory dance is over.  

 

He can’t bring himself to do anything about it, though. For all that this situation rubs Erik the wrong way, this moment, here, with blue eyes gazing tenderly up at him...he’s never felt anything so  _right._  

 

The hint of a blush adorns the man’s cheeks, and his partner averts his eyes, clearing his throat. Erik watches the endearing display, wondering what he’s thinking about. 

 

“I...I would’ve—that is,” the man takes a steadying breath. “For someone who despises the act, you are surprisingly good at dancing.” 

 

It’s a reasonable question. Throughout the past few years, Erik’s had to learn an interesting variety of skills to better corner his targets. Waltzing proved a tedious, but useful one. Aloud, he says, “I never said I couldn’t dance, only that I didn’t care to.” 

 

His partner grins. “Touché.” 

 

Letting an inquisitive smile grace his lips, Erik asks, “What’s your excuse?” 

 

“A pretentious mother frequently prone to whims of ostentation.” He heaves an exaggerated sigh, eyes shining with mock pain. “Raven and I had to attend classes for five years too many. I hated every second of it.” 

 

“Clearly, your dislike hasn’t affected your ability.” 

 

The man sends him a warning look. “Don’t jinx it, my friend. It’s a bloody miracle that all our toes are still intact.” 

 

Erik tilts his head. “I’m inclined not to believe you until I see evidence otherwise.” 

 

“It’s your funeral.” 

 

Solemn eyes fix on his, as though Erik is making an egregious mistake by underestimating his ability to squish toes, and Erik has to bite his lip to keep his mirth contained.  

 

The incredulity of this conversation doesn’t escape him. It takes Erik no less than several months to be even remotely comfortable in someone else’s company, and here he is, joking around with a complete stranger like they’re childhood friends.  

 

Abruptly, he realizes that he doesn’t even know his dance partner’s name. 

 

“Charles,” the man blurts out, almost as if he’d read Erik’s mind. He clarifies after a startled moment, “My name. It’s Charles Xavier.” 

 

Erik takes the sudden introduction in stride, committing the name to memory, offers his own. “Erik Lenshher.”  

 

Whatever comes of this night, he never wants to forget the man with the ocean in his eyes. 

 

Blue eyes gleam in the light, and red lips shape his name. “Erik,” Charles breathes, and Erik feels his throat tighten at the warmth infused in the syllables. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.” 

 

The fingers wrapped around his apply the slightest pressure, the imitation of a handshake. “Likewise,” Erik says, and squeezes back. 

 

Another tune starts up, just as dark and unsettling as the rest. The echo of his name on Charles’ lips plays on repeat in his head. 

 

“So,” he begins, gazing intently at Charles. It has been a long time since he’s last engaged in conversation with the sole intention of getting to know someone better. He hopes he hasn’t forgotten how. “What does one do when they’re not occupied by overbearing mothers and headstrong sisters?” 

 

With Charles, Erik finds that he wants to know everything. 

 

The man seems only too happy to comply.  

 

“One reads,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Scientific journals, mostly. But I happen to have a soft spot for well written fantasy.” 

 

“The Once and Future King?” Erik suggests. 

 

Charles positively beams. “T.H.White. A capital choice.”  

 

Erik really shouldn’t feel so validated. They sweep across the room, manoeuvring gracefully around the other dancers. From over Charles’ shoulder, he catches Raven’s eye. The hostess narrows her gaze, flicking between her brother and Erik, and flashes him a warning look that could be translated directly as a death threat. 

 

He blinks, and turns back to Charles. “You mentioned scientific journals?” 

 

“Ah, yes. Biology, mostly. In particular, the field of genetics that deals in mutations and theories of evolution.” Erik nods along, and they slow the pace of the dance to allow for conversation. “Did you know that mutation took us from single celled organisms to the dominant forms of reproductive life on the planet? It’s all  _immensely_  fascinating.” 

 

Erik would be the first to admit that he’d been a smidgen too distracted by the flush of Charles’ skin, the way his eyes came to life as he spoke, he could tell, about a much beloved topic, to pay close attention.  

 

“I’m afraid I’m not much for the sciences,” he admits, wishing he had something to contribute, just so he could watch Charles come alive again. He offers Charles a rueful smile. “Your words of expertise might be lost on me.” 

 

There’s nothing but delight in Charles’ eyes when he looks at him. 

 

“You underestimate yourself, my friend. A PhD in the subject is hardly necessary for talking about mutations; they’re more common than people might think.” 

 

“Oh?”  

 

Charles nods, leans in close. “For example,” he murmurs into the space between them, reaching up to twine a lock of Erik’s hair around his fingers. His eyes never leave Erik’s. “You exhibit a most beautiful mutation of the MC1R gene.” 

 

Erik can barely form coherent thought. “What?” he asks, breathless. 

 

That earns him a smile, and Erik’s attention is inevitably drawn to his mouth, so incredibly red and inviting. He watches with utmost focus as those lips part, a puff of moist air ghosting across his skin. “Auburn hair,” Charles whispers in explanation, but all Erik can think about is pressing him up against the wall, covering those lips with his, mapping every inch of that mouth with his tongue. 

 

Something akin to a whimper escapes Charles’ lips, and he butchers the next step, feet tangling together gracelessly. He pitches forward, and Erik tightens the hand on his waist, his powers coming to his aid and latching onto the metal in Charles’ clothes.  

 

They freeze for a moment, with Charles hovering centimetres from Erik’s body, his hands fisted in Erik’s turtleneck. Erik himself is horrified for a second with the revelation of his ability, more out of years of paranoia than conscious reasoning. 

_A mutant,_ he hears Charles say, but those blush red lips never move.  _With a mind so incredibly_ _bright...of course you’re a mutant._

 

It takes Erik a great deal of restraint to not drop Charles.  

 

A mutant, he’d called him. Right into his mind, with no input from his ears.  

 

Did that mean...was Charles like him? A  _mutant_? 

_Yes,_ comes the inaudible response. Blue eyes are peering earnestly into his own.  _I’m like you. A_ _telepath, with the ability to read people’s thoughts. In fact, everyone in this room is like us, all with_ _their own extraordinary powers._ A soothing warmth pervades his mind, words he’d been waiting to confirm all night.  _You are not alone, Erik._

 

For the second time tonight, Erik is left speechless .  

 

His brain is a tumultuous mess of emotions, thoughts, questions, realizations, all fighting to be voiced. Charles must sense the conflict, because then there’s a gentle caress inside his mind, waving everything away, and radiating thoughts of  _calm_ and  _warmth_ and  _safe._

 

Erik leans into the sensations and allows himself to drift away. 

 

When the outside world starts fading back in, he finds himself in Charles’ embrace. Weakly, he lifts a hand, drawing back just enough to touch Charles’ cheek. Eyelids flutter open to reveal soulful blue eyes, almost piercing into his mind with their intensity. With a start, Erik realizes that they probably are. 

_No,_ comes Charles’ voice, gentle and firm.  _I won’t look into your thoughts. Not without your_ _permission.  
_

 

There’s a plea hidden in the thoughts. Erik wants to reassure the man, wants to be able to say  _yes, I_ _believe you,_ but that would be a disservice to their budding connection. Charles deserves every bit of honesty he can scrap together, even if the truth is less than pleasant.  

 

And the truth is that he can’t. A lifetime of being wronged has left him wary of even the most sincere of smiles, and he cannot fathom the thought of giving up his deepest, darkest secrets for blue eyes to peruse.  

 

A hand comes up to cover Erik’s. 

 

“It’s alright,” Charles assures, but his smile is tinged with sorrow. Erik is hit with like an inexplicable stab of guilt. “I understand, Erik, I really do. It was unfair of me to expect that of you.” Silently, he continues:  _If not with your thoughts, can you at the very least trust me not to lead you into harm’s_ _way?  
_

 

Erik thinks about it, and finds that he can. 

_Good._ Out loud, Charles glances around, asks him for the time. 

 

“Quarter past three,” Erik replies, frowning even as he double checks the functioning of his wristwatch. “...in the morning.”  

 

How can that be? It wasn’t even midnight when he’d stumbled into that alleyway... could four hours have passed so quickly? 

 

Charles appears only marginally less distressed by the news. “Right.” He lowers their hands, still holding on tight.  _Time is an abstract concept in this place. We don’t have long, though; and we need_ _to get you out of here_ ** _now._** He takes a fortifying breath, then tugs Erik along by the hand. “If you’ll just follow me,” 

 

Bemused, Erik allows himself to be led to the edge of the ballroom. The chandelier overhead flickers for a second, but nobody seems to notice, far too preoccupied with the celebrations. It’s distinctly unreal. 

 

“Wait,” he asks, finally, when it looks like they’re about to walk into a wall. “Where are we going?” 

 

Charles tilts his head a little. “To find the exit, of course. Like you wanted.”  _It’s not safe here, anyone_ _could overhear. Don’t speak until we’re out of earshot._ He reaches forward and grasps at thin air, twisting. Impossibly, a door sized part of the wall swings open to reveal a long, empty corridor, and they slip through.  

 

On the other side, Charles casts his gaze about furtively, two fingers going up to his temple. 

 

“All clear,” he says, then proceeds down the corridor at a brisk pace. Erik keeps up with little effort, hackles rising in the face of the apprehension emanating from the telepath. It’s not safe, he’d said. What exactly was wrong with this place? 

 

He speaks up at the next turn of hallways. “Charles. What’s going on here? Why do we have to leave?” 

 

“ _We_ don’t. You do.” Comes the cryptic answer. 

 

“Why?” 

 

“Because you don’t belong here.”  

 

Well. Erik is torn between feeling insulted and asking for clarification. “And you do?” 

 

“Yes.” Blue eyes meet his briefly, and they are tinted with something dark. “Me, and everyone else in that ballroom. We’re prisoners, you see, kept here against our wills by a power hungry madman. He has a penchant for collecting mutants with powerful abilities, to study and experiment on for his own sick fascination.”  

_Sounds familiar,_  Erik thinks warily. But he knows the eyes of the tortured, sees them every time he looks in the mirror, and the mutants in that room hardly fit the bill. 

 

“An illusion,” Charles explains unprompted, never breaking his stride. “Shaw has an illusionist in his employ, along with a telepath with a rather edgy secondary mutation. Together, they keep the others subdued, unaware of the peril they’re in.” 

 

That explains the wholly artificial feel of the ballroom, then. A trick of the mind; all except for Charles. 

 

Erik points out, “But not you.” 

 

Charles smiles ruefully. “No, not me. It takes a considerable amount of power to fool a telepath, and I suspect Miss Frost has already spread herself thin.” 

 

“Then why don’t you escape?” 

 

Even as he asks, Erik realizes what an inane question it is. For someone like Charles, at least. The air around them turns steely with determination, and Charles throws him a sharp look. 

 

“I’m not leaving them behind.” The telepath’s tone brooks no argument. He answers Erik’s next query before the thought can form. “And yes, I’ve tried to free them of her influence, but her secondary mutation is defensive in nature, a strong one at that. Going up against it feels not unlike diving headfirst into a jagged reef, and I’m hardly an experienced diver.”  

 

A sense of helpless frustration seeps through his words. Erik knows it all too well.  

 

Carefully, he reaches forward to wrap his fingers around Charles’ where they’re fisted by his side, in what he hopes is a show of silent comradery. Charles slows to a halt in front of a door, shoulders sagging with the weight of his thoughts. 

 

“Hey,” Erik murmurs, attempting to project something like comfort.  _Not your fault._ He squeezes Charles’ hand meaningfully. “We’re going to get them out, alright?” 

 

Tired blue eyes meet his, pools of liquid fire.  _Thank you._ “Will you help?” 

 

“Of course.” He is only a little startled to realize that the decision has already been made for him. Schmidt can wait, he supposes. These mutants need him now.  _Charles_ needs him. “I assume you have a plan?” 

 

The telepath nods, glancing at Erik’s watch. “I do. But time’s running out.” He bites his lip, twitching his fingers by his temple hesitantly. “It would be easier if I...” 

 

Erik steels himself. “Go ahead.” 

 

Charles puts his fingers to his head, closing his eyes. Erik closes his own, and suddenly, there’s a series of images shifting through his mind, ranging from detailed maps of the mansion they’re in, to certain events that portray the extent of the danger they’re in. It’s a lot of information at once, but when the barrage stops and Erik opens his eyes, there’s only one word on his mind. 

 

“Schmidt.” 

 

Charles drops his hand. “What?” 

 

Erik fights to keep the surge of renewed hatred down. “That man in your memories. He’s a German...  _doctor_  that I’ve been chasing for the past few years. Klaus Schmidt.” 

_Of course_ it’s Schmidt; he should’ve guessed it. Everything Charles has told him  _reeks_  of Schmidt’s personal brand of opulent sadism. Factoring in the apparent coincidence that it was his man that lead Erik to this place, Erik feels like banging his head against a wall.  

 

“Are you certain?” Charles asks. 

 

"Yes.” He would know that face anywhere; it’s burned into the depth of his darkest dreams. Erik tries to send that certainty across to the telepath, not bothering to conceal his deep seated contempt for the monster. 

 

Charles gasps, stumbling back into the wall. Erik’s rage simmers down at that, and he’s instantly on alert, hands grabbing the man’s shoulders to keep him upright. Clearly, something went wrong with the telepathic exchange, because when Charles’ eyes clear, there are tears dripping down his cheeks, blue depths looking so very forlorn. 

 

“Oh,  _Erik_ ,” he says. Shaky hands come up to grasp his. “I...I had no  _idea...”  
_

 

And Erik understands.  

 

He’s given away too much.  

 

Fighting the instinctual prickle of anger, he tries to keep a level head, tugging his hands away. “You saw.” 

 

“I did.” Charles takes a deep breath, absentmindedly wiping at his cheeks. “God, Erik, I...I don’t know what to say...just—you  _must_  know, you don’t have to do this alone.”  _Not anymore._ When Erik doesn’t respond, he steps forward, looking up at him imploringly. “You— 

 

The sudden tolling of bells resounds through the corridor.  

 

The both of them freeze.  

 

After a moment, Charles curses under his breath. And then Erik’s being pushed towards the door, apprehension bleeding out with the telepath’s thoughts. He wrenches the door open, leading Erik out. He stops on the threshold. 

 

“Shaw will be here soon,” Charles says, shooting an anxious look over his shoulder. “You need to leave before he sees you.” 

 

The words escape him almost automatically. “And if I want to stay?” 

 

_"Stay?”_ Charles looks at him like he’s gone mad. Erik sets his jaw, and comprehension dawns upon him all at once. He shakes his head vehemently. “ _No,_ Erik; you  _can’t._ I, I know what this means to you, but he’s too strong. There will be another time, another chance. Not today. You have to understand...” 

 

Erik thinks of all those years spent running after Schmidt. Now that the man is coming to him, running away hardly seems like an option. He fixes Charles with a blank stare. “He killed my parents.” 

 

Charles makes a distressed noise. “I  _know,_ my friend.  _I know._ Believe me, the very last thing I want to do is to ask you to walk away, but you’ll be no good to anyone dead.”  _Which is how you’ll end up if_ _you try to take him on now._  Behind him, the bells continue to ring ominously. “I don’t have much time. Please, Erik. Tell me you’ll go.” 

 

Erik hesitates. 

 

“Why don’t you have time?” he asks, stalling the decision. 

 

Charles looks at him. After a beat, the fight seems to leave him, a sad smile turning down the edges of his mouth. “Because,” he says, stepping back into the dim light of the corridor. “When the last chime fades at half past three—”  

 

There’s a sharp crack, like a bolt of thunder, and the telepath slumps forward, boneless.  

 

“Charles!” Erik darts forward to loop an arm around the man, propping him up with his body. Charles’ head hangs limply by his neck, and when he peers into his face, blue eyes stare back, unblinking, no trace of that fiery spark to be seen. For a heart stopping moment, Erik thinks he’s dead. 

 

Then he hears, 

 

— _this happens._ There’s no sign of awareness from the man, but his voice sounds the same. Clear. Unhurt, if despondent. _Shaw fancies us his possessions, his marionettes if you will, and so we remain everyday, until_ _the light fades from the sky again._

 

Erik stares, stricken.  _How...  
_

 

Somewhere inside the mansion, the metal of the bells shudders one last time. 

_Please, Erik._ Charles’ voice sounds distant, steadily fading away. Erik tightens his grip around the man, as if he can stop whatever this is if he only holds on long enough.  

_Go.  
_

 

And then there’s silence. 

 

Erik looks at unseeing eyes, and feels as if he’s in over his head.  

 

Whatever dreadful power he’s harnessed that makes this possible, this Schmidt is not the same man he once knew. Erik never thought he could hate the man any more. One thing’s abundantly clear: he’s going to need to revaluate his plan if he wants any hope of successfully exacting his revenge. 

_Another time,_ Charles had said. When he’s better prepared to give the bastard the end he deserves. Hopefully, with Charles standing at his side.

 

Swallowing, he lowers Charles’ body to the carpeted floor, gently settling him against the wall. His eyes trace over lifeless features, forcing down his panic at the eerie sight. Only till sunset, he reminds himself, stepping away onto the lawn.  

_I’ll come back,_ he thinks resolutely, wondering if Charles can hear. Needing to reassure himself.  _I’m_ _going to get you out of here, Charles. I promise.  
_

 

With one last glance, Erik takes off into the night. The map to 1407 Graymalkin Lane is seared into his brain, overlain by a pair of haunting blue eyes.  

 

 □■▪¤▪■□

 

 


End file.
